


Kinda' Like Beethoven (But Not Really)

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Albino Dave, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Deaf Dave, Ginger Karkat, Humanstuck, M/M, deaf!Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat Vantas, an English studies college freshman in need of some extra cash, auditions and gets accepted as the sole cellist for what seems like an easy, decent-paying recording job. The music was sent to him, he recorded it, and he shipped it back to the sender; and, then, he assumed he was finished. Two days later, he received another packet of almost identical sheet music and more recording supplies. Again, he recorded himself and sent it back. However, when a third package of recording supplies and music arrives, he decides to investigate further; and, what he finds is everything but what he expected. (In case you don't read the tags, it's a deaf!Dave/Karkat fic. Yay?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, I suck at checking things over. Please leave comments if you see errors and/or wish to provide feedback or egostroking. I'd like feedback a bit more, but egostroking's fine, too.

_“Room 412: John Egbert and Dave Strider”_

The names are printed neatly in black ink, set upon on a folded sheet of paper, and jammed into the the identification slot of an otherwise plain wood door. You glance down at the return address on the package, then up at this label and, once you’ve confirmed that the two match, knock deliberately on the wooden portal.

About two minutes later, just as you’re preparing to knock again, the door swings open. You’re greeted by the stupid, toothy grin of your friend, John; and, though you’re starting to feel that this is the wrong place, you decide to at least give it a try. Before he can say anything, you shove the manilla envelope–the same used each of the past three times–into his hands. “I followed the return address, and I wound up here. So… I’m going to assume you know _something_ about this shit, because I’m fucking sick of being sent practically the same piece of music over and over again. It’s like a goddamn broken record, except I have to hole myself up in my vaguely weed-scented room and fucking play, record, and edit it.”

John’s smile fades slightly upon hearing your complaints. However, you think you see a trace of recognition dawn across his face. “First of all, calm down a little. You’re going to blow something out in your head one day. Dave’s the one who’s been sending you this stuff, so I’ll go try and talk him into coming out here and talking with you, okay?”

“ _Try_ and talk him into talking with me!?” you growl, forcing yourself to keep your voice at a volume far lower than you’re accustomed to. “I’m the one playing the fucking shit he sends me. He’d better get his ass out here and talk to me.”

A smirk flashes across John’s face, as if to say “yeah right”, and he offers you a curt nod. Then, he turns around and wanders off into his dorm. Three minutes of what you assume to be inaudible mutterings later, he emerges with the douchebag you’ve seen tagging alongside him throughout the campus. (On the other hand, it may be the other way around.)

John gestures towards the pale kid with hair so white you assume it can only be bleached, and flashes another of his trademark corny grins. “This is Dave. He’s the one behind the music and everything.” Once he’s finished talking, he elbows the Dave in the side and, once he knows he has his attention, makes a few deliberate hand motions.

In return, Dave lets forth a snort of contemptuous laughter, flips both you and John the bird, and folds his arms.

“Okay…” John grumbles, the smile fading from his face. “Well… Dave’s not exactly in a great mood right now, so… I mean… You could try now, but I don’t think he’ll be sticking around for very long…”

You let forth a quiet growl of annoyance and roll your eyes. Then, you take the opportunity to size up this asshole.

He’s about an inch taller than you, though that exact same distance sets him below John by height. His relatively short snow white hair seems to extend seamlessly from his unnaturally pale skin, though he’s managed to make his brows distinct with some poorly and unevenly applied grey hair dye. His thin lips seem to be curved in a perpetually disinterested frown, his furrowed brows seemingly frozen in the same disconnected way. A hearing aid several skin tones too pink for him rests behind each ear, propped against the earpiece of his shades; and, his red-white baseball shirt and jeans seem about a size too large for his thin frame. …All in all, he could probably cause no more damage to you than you could to him.

“Well I won’t take that long. I just want to know why the fuck he insists I play the same fucking thing over and over again like a broken record,” you snarl, your vocal volume rising a bit higher than you intended.

In reply, a ghost of recognition flashes across Dave’s otherwise passive face. It is quickly replaced, however, with a contemptuous snort of bitter laughter. His hands move once more, seemingly faster than before.

Even John seems to have a bit of trouble keeping up. However, he quickly finds his place and translates for you. His voice drops slightly lower from its normal pitch, and you notice a discrete southern twist to his words, as if he’s trying to mimic Dave’s voice in translation. “I thought you’d actually be the one to finish this, but I guess not. You can quit if you want. Most people do. So, be my guest and throw in the towel.”

Once he’s finished translating for Dave, John’s voice returns to its slightly annoying self. “Just so you know, we’ve been through five musicians before you. All five dropped after the second package. Which, on a bright note, means you’re the one that’s made it the longest!”

You ignore John’s usual out-of-place optimism and begin to unconsciously chew on your lower lip. You consider the options–leaving or staying–and try to push away the rising guilt. After all, you don’t really hate everyone as much as people seem to think. You don’t even really mean to come across as such a crab. You just do. Sure, you’ve been getting better at it; but, you still haven’t and probably won’t ever master the art of not being a crab to everyone.

As much as you hate to admit it, you feel bad for the guy. From what you’ve heard about him, he’s a musical studies freshman. He’s supposedly a pretentious bastard, selfish prick, and egotistic eccentric. From what you’ve seen of him, though, he’s just a fairly normal guy trying to find his niche. Actually, as much as it pains you to so much as consider it–much less acknowledge it–he’s a bit like you. He’s picked out of the crowd–albeit, for far different reasons–and harassed.

Normally, you’d treat him as you would any other. After all, you’ve plenty of friends and acquaintances with quirks like his. You’ve learned to look past them, unlike most. But, for some reason, something about him strikes you as strange. In fact, you’re surprised you’re even feeling pity for him. After all, he’s the same as anyone else you happen to know, albeit a bit more annoying.

And, aside from the personal aspects of the decision, you have to consider the money. He’s offering you enough money for each recording to buy at least a week of groceries. If you leave the job, you’ll be back to picking odd jobs up and eating every other day…

After several minutes of silent deliberation, you finally speak up. “Fine… I’ll stay. Just… I don’t know… Can’t you fucking revise it completely before you send it to me?”

John mediates between you and Dave, as he has been for the past god-knows-how-many minutes, and eventually gives you Dave’s response. “I’d love to, dude. It’s not like I enjoy listening to my own shit on repeat day and night. Unfortunately, I’m not Beethoven. At least… I’m not Beethoven yet. I need to hear the music to fix it, you know?”

You watch Dave and, to your own slight astonishment, find yourself a bit amused by the fact that he’s syncing his facial expressions with John’s translation. In fact, when he raises a brow at the end of John’s translating, you can’t help but reply with small smile. “Yeah… I get that. If there’s any shit I could do to help, though, you can tell me. I know a few weird fuckers who prefer to listen to their musical excretions sawn out on unwilling violins live rather than recorded.”

Your response coaxes a snort of laughter from John and, to your surprise, brings the faintest hint of a smile to Dave’s face.

Rather than responding in sign, however, he motions for you to wait a moment. He disappears into the dorm and, a few minutes later, emerges with a notecard scribbled upon in red ink. He hands it to you, offers you an approving nod, and gives John a message to relay to you as you shove the note into your pocket.

As you would expect from John, he obediently restates Dave’s message in his corny Dave voice. “I’ve got a few things, but they’ll take fucking forever to spell out, so I’ll just leave you with my Pesterchum handle. Chat as soon as you can or feel like it. I’m almost always online. I prefer video chat, but I’m fine either way.”

Before you can reply to him, however, he’s managed to silently slip back into the privacy of his dorm…

* * *

 

You look down at the now-crumpled notecard, then back at the screen to ensure you’ve typed in the username correctly. Once you’ve reassured yourself of this fact through borderline obsessive checking and rechecking, you add him to your list of chums. Then, without further hesitation, you attempt to start up a conversation.

—carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 16:31—

Your fingers are poised to type but, before you can so much as think about pressing a key, another notification pops up.

—turntechGodhead [TG] requested a video chat at 16:31—

After making a mental note of Dave’s impossibly fast reaction, you accept the invite. A window pops up alongside the honey-yellow chat window filled with white, revealing the image of Dave reclining nonchalantly in an executive desk chair seemingly held together with duct tape. He’s wearing a pair of large, odd headphones, though he pays no mind to them. In fact, you notice him fidgeting absentmindedly with the volume controls on the left side.

CG: WOW. AND HERE I WAS, THINKING YOU COULDN’T LOOK LIKE A BIGGER DOUCHENOZZLE ON CHAT THAN YOU ALREADY DO IN REAL LIFE.  
CG: PAINT MY GENITALS GREY AND CALL ME A LIAR, THEN, BECAUSE YOU DO.  
CG: I CAN ACTUALLY FEEL THE SCORCHING DOUCHEY HELLFIRE WHICH RADIATES FROM YOUR SCRAWNY FRAME THROUGH THE INTERNET.  
TG: well if thats not the most creative greeting ive ever received then ill cut off my ass  
TG: because it was  
TG: also the loudest  
TG: congrats to you  
TG: you still dont win the most offensive award yet though  
TG: but if you keep this up you might be able to  
TG: double congrats  
CG: YOU’RE EVEN MORE OF AN IMPRESSIVELY LARGE DOUCHEBAG WHEN YOU HAVE THE LUXURY OF NOT REQUIRING JOHN AS A FACILITATOR BETWEEN YOU AND THE SUBJECT, I SEE.  
CG: BUT THAT IS ALL INSIGNIFICANT SMALL TALK.  
CG: AND, AS I’M SURE YOU WISH TO WASTE NO LESS TIME THAN I DO ON THESE MATTERS, I SHALL MERRILY STRIDE ONWARDS AND TO THE POINT OF THIS SHITTY CONVERSATION.  
CG: IN OUR FACE-TO-FACE MEETING EARLIER TODAY, YOU STATED YOU HAD A FEW REQUESTS FOR ME WHEN I’M RECORDING. ELABORATE.  
TG: oh god your caps are giving me a headache  
TG: dude you type in seemingly endless blocks of confusing caps ugh  
TG: could you like turn off caps lock or something  
CG: MY COMPUTER’S A PIECE OF TECHNOLOGICALLY INEPT SHIT. AND THE CAPS LOCK IS KIND OF STUCK. I GUESS I’M SORRY FOR MY COMPUTER’S INEPTITUDE. I'M NOT REALLY, BUT IF THAT HELPS TO GET AN ANSWER FROM YOU, I'LL SAY IT.  
TG: damn dude you should be sorry  
TG: i was going to say that im all down with listening to you live and whatever other crap  
TG: turn up the bass a little when youre putting the shit through the sound editor  
TG: like bump it up to crazy pants ruining levels  
TG: i do it myself but itd save me some time and energy if you do it  
TG: just turn that shit all the way up  
TG: turn it up higher than an alien spaceship  
TG: higher than an overinflated blimp  
TG: you get what im saying  
TG: cause if not i can ill just keep on spamming  
CG: YES. I GET YOUR FUCKING POINT. I GOT IT BEFORE YOU BEGAN SPEWING TRIVIAL RHYMES AT ME. YOU CAN STOP NOW. ACTUALLY, YOU WILL STOP NOW.  
CG: YOU’RE FUCKING DOUCHEBAG SEUSS.  
TG: that sounds like a personal problem

You read the reply and, in the window beside the chat, notice him smirking. It’s a rather stupid-looking smirk but, somehow, it hits you the right way. For the second time in one day, a shy grin slips past your emotional filter.

CG: YOU ARE UNBELIEVABLY AND INCOMPREHENSIBLY STUPID.  
CG: YOU UNDERSTAND THAT, RIGHT?  
TG: totes  
CG: JUDGING FROM THAT RESPONSE, I’M GOING TO ASSUME YOU HAVE A BLOG.  
TG: totes again  
CG: THAT MEANS YOU’RE SPREADING YOUR DOUCHEY PROPOGANDA ACROSS THE WORLD. WE’RE ALL FUCKING DOOMED, THANKS TO YOU.  
TG: cool that makes me one of those badass horsemen things in the bible right  
TG: i kinda dig that idea  
TG: but im kind of tired and i think god is trying to drive a power drill through my skull so im gonna leave it at that  
TG: tomorrow though im free to talk  
TG: in fact i always go to breakfast between eight and nine at the café thing so we could meet up or something  
TG: talk shit about each other in person  
TG: maybe we could start a fight and get in the news paper  
TG: and just gander at the vid chat im gonna teach you some shit before i go

As the messages pile up in the chat window, your eyes wander to the video chat. The same smirk is still plastered on his face. Through the layer of odd lighting and pixellation, you recognise him making a fist with each hand and, with his thumbs facing you, tapping his wrists together. He then offers yet another smug grin and points in a way that makes him look like he’s gesturing towards the text chat.

TG: thought youd enjoy that since you seem to like the word so much  
TG: means douchebag  
TG: kinda slang and i dont suggest doing it in a crowd  
TG: but it does the trick  
TG: id wait around and make sure you dont fuck it up but my heads killing me so  
TG: strider out

Before you can type out a reply, the video chat closes and the notification pops up.

—turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 17:17—

You stare at the notification for a bit and, despite your best efforts, find your mind wandering to thoughts of him. Once the thoughts have subsided, however, you dig through the pile of junk in your room and pull forth the music and your cello. Then, you get back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I continue to suck at proof reading, I shall comment upon the fact that I really love feedback. I like when people point out errors, because I make a buttload of them! Otherwise, enjoy the fic. I meant for this to be a cute chapter but I slapped some _Amadeus_ onto the turntable, dropped the needle, and... well... things got Don Giovanni-level dark pretty fast. On a side note, you can check [HERE](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com/tagged/my_writing) (my Tumblr writing tag) for information on the status of my writing and random stupid complaints.

You find him exactly where he said he’d be–seemingly lost in a thick red winter coat at one of the café’s two-seat tables. A well-used guitar case rests against the edge of the square table, its false leather surface almost completely hidden beneath a layer of bumper stickers ranging in subject matter between record stores and animal shelters. His shaded gaze is locked thoughtfully out the window to his left as he tilts slightly back in his chair. On the table before him, just to the right of a cup of still-steaming coffee, is a pile of music paper and a variety of pens.

Not wanting to disturb his train of thought, you want until his glance wanders towards you.

Once he notices you, an oddly attractive half-smile spreads across his face. He nods casually to the seat across from him and drops the chair to allow all four legs to rest on the white-and-black tile floor. Then, he pushes the warm Styrofoam cup of coffee towards you and nods.

In return, you open your mouth to speak. As quickly as you begin this action, however, you find yourself reaching into your pocket and pulling forth your beaten up iPod touch. You pull up the Pesterchum application and, after a few seconds of attempting to get the terribly cracked screen to cooperate, manage to type out a message.

—carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 08:32—  
CG: THAT’S YOUR COFFEE, ISN’T IT?  
CG: WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU SHOVING IT TOWARDS ME!? I DON’T EVEN DRINK THAT STUFF. IT TASTES LIKE BIRD SHIT MIXED WITH CYANIDE AND POISONOUS CHEMICAL ADDITIVES.

An iPhone sitting atop a moderately thick stack of papers begins vibrating, prompting Dave to pick it up and glance at the screen. For the briefest of moments, he lifts his shades, revealing a pair of unusual red eyes which quickly skim the text. As soon as he’s finished, however, he drops the shades back into place. You make a mental note of this as he rapidly hammers out a reply.

TG: oh my god you even type like that on your phone  
CG: CORRECTION. THIS IS A FUCKING IPOD TOUCH.  
TG: whatever i guess you just really like yelling at everything  
TG: rose says constant yellings a sign of insecurity  
TG: but she says some weird shit so i dont usually take her too seriously  
TG: you can just talk by the way  
TG: i can usually pick up on what youre saying somehow  
TG: if not well  
TG: youll know  
TG: i will fucking make sure you know when im not getting it  
TG: but keep your ipod phone thing with you

You nod and use the hand not occupied by the electronic device to pick up the coffee. You peer curiously into the Styrofoam cup and swirl the dark brown contents about like a wine connoisseur preparing his taste test. “Did you put any shit into this or…?”

TG: nope  
TG: ive already had mine  
TG: i personally love a bit of honey in it  
TG: makes it nice and sweet  
TG: like my face  
TG: and my butt  
TG: some milk helps too  
TG: but i leave the stuff i get other people alone in case they dont like what i like  
TG: if you want me to go get anything for it i will

After raising a brow at him, you cautiously sniff the contents. It smells nice enough… You think it over a bit and, after a few moments, decide to try just one sip. After all, it can’t be that…

“SWEET MOTHER OF GOD!” you sputter, spitting the small amount you’d taken back into the cup. “How the fuck do you stomach that shit?” you blubber as you, desperate for relief from the putrid taste, resort to ripping open a packet of Sweet’n Low and pour its sugary contents into your mouth.

TG: god damn youre fucking loud  
TG: i can barely hear shit and i fucking heard you  
TG: oh great youve got people looking at us  
TG: see dude this is why we cant have nice things  
TG: we cant have happiness or joy  
TG: because you fucking scream and it scares away  
TG: all the nice things in life  
TG: now wait a minute and let me work some magic

“What the fuck are you going to do?” you grumble, staring at the disgusting beverage.

He replies with a smirk and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling forth a small glass bottle of honey.

“You carry honey in your fucking pocket!?” The statement coming from your mouth is so stupid that you can’t help but laugh a bit as you say it.

TG: hey you never know when youll need some  
TG: i also have ketchup packets

“Please say you’re joking…”

TG: no i really do  
TG: but we dont need that shit now so ill just leave them as a surprise for later

You roll your eyes and watch as he pours a bit of the honey into the coffee, mixes it, and adds some sugar. Then, he offers you a sly grin.

TG: go on  
TG: try a bit  
TG: be my guest  
TG: just one sip

“I doubt this’ll help any,” you reply sceptically. Once you’ve tasted a bit, however, you can’t stop. In fact, you spend the next five minutes downing the beverage, gulp by gulp; and, once you’re finished, you’re greeted back to coffee-less reality by his smug grin.

TG: im sorry what was that you said  
TG: i thought i heard you say it wouldnt help  
TG: well arent you one hell of a liar  
TG: unless you just drank that entire cup because youre so angry you needed to vent your rage by consuming an entire serving of something you hate  
TG: which i assume is not the case  
TG: but judging by the look on your face  
TG: im right and youre wrong  
TG: i should totally turn this shit into a folk song

You roll your eyes at his rather stupid antics. “And you’ll get the golden ‘Shut the Fuck Up’ record for that shitty musical piece,” you reply with a small smile.

He lets forth a quiet chuckle and nods, his fingers flying rapidly across his phone screen. From the speed at which he types, you assume he’s been communicating in such a way for quite a while. Or, at the very least, he at least seems to be quite comfortable with himself. He seems far more confident than you…

TG: and then ill shove the award up your smart ass  
TG: wait no thats not what i meant to say  
TG: goddammit again  
TG: i was calling you a smartass  
TG: and saying id shove the award up your butt  
TG: but that didnt come out the right way  
TG: oh well lets just roll with it  
TG: even if i shove it up your butt  
TG: ill still have more awards to my name than dicaprio has oscars

“Okay now, Leo’s not that bad,” you grumble defensively. “He was pretty good in _Titanic_ , and why the FUCK didn’t he get an Oscar for that fucking movie!?” The words have slipped past your rather questionable verbal filter before you have a chance to stop them. Normally, you’d be concerned about someone knowing your closet love for sappy romance everything; but, for some reason, you feel nothing of the sort this time. In fact, you find yourself feeling… comfortable? Comfortable that you’ve finally told someone who, unlike Gamzee, is coherent enough to know what you’re saying. Comfortable that maybe–just maybe–you’ve found someone you can confide in.

TG: oh my god  
TG: oh my GOD  
TG: you liked that movie  
TG: that movie fucking sucked  
TG: i only really went  
TG: cause kate was bearing her boobs and her butt  
TG: didnt really excite me as much as i hoped  
TG: kind of disappointing

“I didn’t need to know about that,” you respond with a roll of your eyes. “Yes, I liked that movie. I’m probably going to masculine hell for that, aren’t I?”

TG: no youre going to somewhere worse than hell  
TG: like super hell  
TG: your assll be sent to super hell  
TG: but ive got a thing for opera so i guess i cant say anything about that  
TG: but hot damn operas hot  
TG: if it were human id bang it on the spot

The sheer absurdity of the comment draws from you another laugh. “That’s fucking disgusting. But I guess if you like it that much, you can go elope with it, and bear its horned-helmet-wearing offspring.”

TG: that sounds real hot

As soon as he sends the text, you notice him gathering his things. He quickly turns the vast, uneven ocean of sheet music into five neat piles and, after clipping them together, sticks them into a pocket on his sticker-covered guitar case.

“Where the fuck are you going?” you mutter, slightly disheartened by his sudden decision to leave. “I was just about to start shitting on your overinflated ego!”

He replies with a brief huff of laughter and a raised index finger, the universal “wait a fucking minute” symbol. Once he’s done, though, he turns his attention to you.

TG: id love to stay  
TG: but ive got some sort of appointment  
TG: i think its an ear thing but i could be wrong  
TG: i never keep that shit straight anyways  
TG: but john gets angsty when i dont show up for his ride on time  
TG: and im already two minutes late  
TG: so ill chat you and shit okay

The ghost of an apologetic smile makes a fleeting appearance on his face, but it disappears before you can really think anything of it. He quickly positions the guitar on his back, the time-battered strap holding it in place, and gives you a terse nod. Before you can say much else, he’s gone…

* * *

You haven’t been this excited about someone logging onto Pesterchum since… Wait… You’ve never been this excited about anyone logging into anything. Yet, right now, your eyes are locked onto the computer screen as intently as if you’re watching porn. The difference is that you’re not waiting or even thinking about porn; you’re waiting and thinking about _him_ …

—turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 15:06—  
—turntechGodhead [TG] requested a video chat at 15:06—  
TG: i have the feeling youve been waiting for me  
TG: waiting like leo waits for his oscar

In the window displaying the view from his webcam, you notice that the room is oddly dark for it being the afternoon. The blinds are all drawn tightly closed and, for the first time since you’ve known him, his shades are clipped to the red collar of his shirt. Without the shades, you can see his odd red eyes; and, you can make out the dark shadows beneath them. His hair is the messiest you’ve ever seen (at least from him) and his usual smirk lacks the same jovial sting it usually carries.

CG: YOU LOOK FUCKING TERRIBLE.  
CG: I’D SAY IT LOOKS LIKE A FELINE ATTACKED YOU, MAULED YOU, AND BROUGHT YOU BACK TO ME AS A CERTIFICATE OF FRIENDSHIP, ONLY TO REALISE IT HADN’T ACTUALLY KILLED YOU.  
CG: OR YOU GOT RUN OVER BY AN EIGHTEEN-WHEELED TRANSPORTATION DEVICE LOADED WITH BLOCKS OF CEMENT.  
TG: shut up im fine  
TG: im perfectly fine  
TG: fine  
TG: dandy even  
TG: im as dandy as a dandelion  
TG: thats the right phrase right  
CG: THAT IS THAT CORRECT TERMINOLOGY.  
TG: ugh stop using big words  
TG: my head hurts enough already

You nod sceptically and lean in a bit closer, examining the tired-looking figure in the adjacent video chat window. As soon as he notices you looking, however, he shies away a bit, slouching over in a manner suggestive of him trying to hide his emotions.

CG: THAT CINCHES IT. I’M PRETTY SURE YOU’RE NOT DANDY AS A FUCKING DANDELION.  
TG: okay fine what if im not  
TG: you gonna kill me for it  
TG: cool guys have off days too you know  
TG: its hard being this awesome

Again, he offers you another insincere smirk. It doesn’t take unnatural insight into human emotions (such as the very inhuman abilities you possess) to realise he’s more than a little bothered by something. But even you, with your personality-defying grasp of empathy, can’t begin to even theorise as to what could be troubling him so much.

CG: OKAY, RIGHT, WHATEVER YOU FUCKING SAY.  
CG: I’M JUST SAYING YOU’RE NOT UP TO YOUR NORMAL SELF.  
CG: YOU’RE NOT UP TO PAR.  
CG: AND I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT STUPID GAME KNOWN AS GOLF.  
CG: I MEAN YOU’RE ACTUALLY KIND OF FREAKING ME OUT, AND I THINK YOU NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE.  
CG: IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE ME. HELL, IT’S PROBABLY BEST IF IT’S NOT ME. BUT TALK TO ANOTHER SENTIENT BEING, BECAUSE YOU LOOK FUCKING HORRIBLE.  
TG: okay great so youre going to talk about how i look  
TG: you look pretty shitty if i say so myself  
TG: i mean you wear the same damned shirt every fucking day  
TG: do you like only have one shirt  
TG: too poor to go out and get another  
CG: ACTUALLY, I HAVE TWO. BUT, YES, I’M NOT IN THE BEST OF FINANCIAL SITUATIONS.  
TG: i can tell  
TG: and shower more you smell like tuna  
TG: no one likes tuna  
TG: we on the same page now dude  
TG: shower a little maybe buy some toothpaste for those piss yellow teeth of yours and maybe we can talk about looking horrible  
CG: …YOU KNOW, I WAS FUCKING RIGHT ABOUT YOU.  
CG: YOU REALLY ARE AN ASSHOLE.  
CG: I CAN’T BELIEVE I ACTUALLY BOTHERED DEVOTING ANY TIME TO WORRYING ABOUT YOU.  
CG: OPEN A FUCKING DICTIONARY AND LOOK UP DAVE STRIDER. I’M SURE THE DEFINITION WILL LOOK SOMETHING LIKE “A HUGE DOUCHEBAG WHO DOESN’T ACKNOWLEDGE HIS OWN EMOTIONAL PROBLEMS, LET ALONE CONSIDER THAT OTHER PEOPLE MIGHT ACTUALLY HAVE FEELINGS, TOO”.  
CG: GO FUCK YOURSELF IN A PIT OF VENOMOUS SNAKES.  
—carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 15:45—


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. This is proof that looping Don Giovanni is bad for your health. So, kids, don't listen to Don Giovanni and write fanfic. It turns into this! Leave commentary and stuff if you want. I love constructive commentary. Woo.

You’re not quite sure of anything right now. You haven’t a clue as to what’s happening or why. You have only small snippets of things your mind deems important enough to remember to go by.

The steady ticking of the waiting room clock becomes your auditory stimulus, and the bland blue-green wall your visual focus as you once again review the information you know. You know you’d had your first conversation with Dave (at least in the past two weeks) this morning. It was brief, business-related, and unemotional. He said something about getting some fresh air and logged off. You then left to spend some time at the library, your safe haven during the periods of time you can no longer tolerate the overpowering smell of weed, which Gamzee constantly emits throughout your dorm. You stayed there from your noon arrival to about six in the evening; then, you’d wandered to the nearby Subway. You purchased a sub, had an admittedly pleasant chance encounter with one of your professors, and left. You’d shoved yourself back into the plain grey Volkswagen Beetle your dad had given you for your seventeenth birthday and began the ten minute return to campus.

And that’s where everything–as a certain Fresh Prince might say–“flipped, turned upside down”. Five minutes into your drive, you remember seeing flashing lights. Not surprisingly, you, like many other drivers, slowed to view the accident. The glow of your headlights and the flickering light of a street lamp fell upon an accident involving an unbelievably familiar black-and-red motorbike. Although the traffic behind you pushed for you to move forward, you couldn’t help but slow to a crawl as you gaze at the now-destroyed motorcycle wreckage. Soon after this, cars behind you began to pull around your now-frozen car, into the adjacent lane, while your mind reeled in shock as the reason for the bike’s familiarity hit you–as you recognised the bike as Dave’s.

Partially due to the nature of the situation and partially because of the overpowering sound of car horns behind you, you pulled forward and managed to make it to a point at which you could turn and follow the signs leading to the nearby hospital.

That’s the extent of your knowledge, where the past blurs into the present. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting in the waiting room even, after staring at the clock for quite a large percentage of the time. You don’t know when or if you’ll be allowed back to see him and…

“I go in to check on him and the asshole asks for you!”

The voice pulls you roughly back to reality and you look up, your gaze settling on John. “What?”

He lets loose a snort of undeniably dorky laughter and rolls his eyes at you. “You’re about as aware as road kill, Karkat. He’s asking for you. Might as well go back and see him. Oh, yeah, he told me he’d kick your ass if you didn’t go down so…” He walks past you, smirks, and elbows you in the side. “Third floor, turn right, second door on the left. Go at ‘em, killer. I’m sure you’ll be making out on the hospital bed soon enough.”

“That’s not fucking funny!” you grumble, rubbing the already-bruising spot on your arm. From there, you follow his directions, wandering down the blandly coloured halls and into an unadorned elevator. You emerge into an equally boring landing and, from there, into his room.

Inside, you find him propped up in bed by an army of pillows. A variety of thin tubes are connected to him, and several screens flash incomprehensible mathematical and medical jargon, all of which somehow translate to his current well-being. His face is, not surprisingly, covered in various cuts and bruises–many of which you assume came from the shades he refuses to take off.

“You fucked yourself up pretty good now, didn’t you?” you grumble awkwardly, keeping your arms folded across your chest. You’ve never been fond of hospitals. In fact, you’re a bit frightened of them. To you, hospitals are where you go to die or get people probing around inside of you. It’s a cheerless environment filled with mask-wearing sanitation freaks and nonsense-spouting people with knives.

He replies with a roll of his eyes and a hoarse, slightly pained laugh.

“What the fucking hell did you do, anyhow?”

He shrugs his free shoulder, indicating to you that he has no clue what happened. Judging by the state of the motorcycle, though, you’re not quite surprised by this. Actually, you’re still pretty floored over the fact that he’s not dead.

You wander over to him and sit in a chair beside his bed, offering a vague attempt at a comforting smile. “It’s kind of nice not having to put up with your rapid-fire comments, you little shit,” you chuckle nervously. “I can actually fucking talk to you for once, and you can’t interrupt me. Maybe this’ll turn out to be a good thing after all.”

A look of possibly false disgust spreads across his features for a moment before they quickly return to their normal, neutral state.

“I’ve been looking fucking everywhere for you, you know. No one knew where the hell you were… And, as much as I hate to admit it, I… I was kind of worried about you. But, with what’s just happened, I guess I had good reason to be, you clumsy ass.” You heave an anxious sigh and try to divert your attention from the fact that you’re cooped up inside a hospital with the guy you haven’t spoken to for two weeks.

“Really… I guess… I guess all I really wanted to do was say… I’m sorry. I was probably a little harsh that last time. I should have let it go…” Another frustrated sough forces its way from you and you run your fingers through your messy red hair. “I’m not all that great with shit like this so… Do you… Maybe you need something? I don’t fucking know… I never fucking know…”

He responds with a frown.

“Why am I saying this to you, anyhow?” you mumble. At this point, you’re just musing. Hell, you’ve almost completely forgotten about the fact that Dave is still listening. “It’s not like you’ll fucking reply. Well… You could, theoretically, but you’re either uncomfortable or incapable of doing so. Aside from that, this is probably all my fucking fault in one way or another… It’s always my fault…”

In response to your self-depreciating commentary, Dave lets forth a disapproving sigh. Then, to your unprecedented surprise, he clears his throat and takes an admirable shot at speaking up. “You’re fine, dude. Chill your tits. It was my fault. I shouldn’t’ve been driving around so late while I was goddamned tired. Jesus, you take everything so damned personally.” His voice is coated in an unmistakably thick Texan accent. It seems a bit off, lacking any real emotional stress to any of it. He also mispronounces several things; but, with everything considered, it’s remarkable. 

And, to you, it’s perfect. It’s a sign that he’s willing to put in the effort to get to know you and comfort you, something even Gamzee ultimately fails to do half the time. “Well… I guess if you actually took the time and energy to fucking open your mouth and actually articulate the idea, I can’t really argue it,” you grumble, unable to hold back a wide grin.

Dave returns your smile with a confident, victorious countenance of his own. He nods, slowly adjusts himself in bed, and offers you a thumbs-up.

“I hate to admit it, but you’re a pretty cool guy when you’re not being an angsty little dick,” you laugh. “And you probably want me to leave now, don’t you?”

He frowns, chews on his lip, and shrugs.

You, meanwhile, glance down at your watch and make an executive decision. “Well… It’s noon, and I came here last night. I haven’t slept worth shit and I’m amazed I haven’t collapsed into a loudly expiring heap of dream dust. Besides, I’m sure you don’t want me to be hanging around here. You’re Dave. You have better people to hang out with besides me.”

He lets forth a snort of laughter and rolls his eyes, as if to tell you that you’re one of his favoured guests. Then, he nods understandingly and allows you to leave.

By the time you get back to your dorm, you’ve missed a lecture and, quite frankly, happen to be content with missing the other one you're supposed to attend today. Without even bothering to change, you crawl into your bed, pull up the covers, and quickly succumb to the sleep which has alluded you for the past umpteen hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~And then he came back at six and they had gay sex.~~  
>  I'm sorry I said that. It really didn't happen. Continue reading. (Except you can't 'till I post the next chapter. I'm an evil liar. Sorry.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to not wind up sadstuck, but it's slowly devolving into it. I still have a nice ending planned, though. So, if everything goes well, it won't end as depressingstuck!? **For formatting and reading purposes, I'm using Dave's Pesterchum code to indicate his writing.** Sorry for the weird chapter split in this. Let's pretend I clumped these two things together for a reason other than I didn't want to put really short updates up.

Eight days ago, Dave had what he calls “an epic-as-hell battle with a concrete road block”; and, every day since then, you’ve visited him. Or, at least, you’ve _tried_ to visit him. You’ve tried and, every time, you’ve been turned away due to some sort of problem or another emergency or found him in a sedated daze.

Today, though, is different. Today, you’ve managed to get into the room. Of course, you’ve been warned that he’s not exactly in the best condition for much conversation; but, at least he’s awake this time. From the combined information of both the medical nonsense some doctor spewed at you and the layman’s speech you got from John, he’s actually in slightly worse condition than before. On the other hand, most of it is from surgery. Most of that surgery, however, seems to have been necessitated by the slipshod operations performed directly after the crash.

Aside from making sure you’d sufficiently vented your frustration at the incompetent operators, you’ve prepared yourself for some unpleasant sights. What greets you, though, still manages to deal a decidedly hard blow to your already-damaged altruistic inner nature–or, according to Terezi, your suppressed “momma bird” instincts.

Of course, you weren’t exactly expecting to walk in and continue without emotion; but, you hadn’t anticipated the tears now threatening to spill over as you look at him. In barely over a week, he’s gone from being awake enough to carry out an admittedly entertaining conversation with you to, in all outward appearances, being virtually dead. His bedside has turned into a cluttered entanglement of wires and tubes on one side and, on the other, a clutter of monitors. A blue tube sticks from his mouth, twisting its way about until it connects to a steadily beeping and buzzing machine which, as far as you can tell, forces him to breathe at semi-regular intervals.

Nervously, you step a bit closer. You keep doing so, slowly closing the gap between you and Dave, until your hand rests on the side rail. “Dave?”

Your muttering receives no response. “Dave?” you repeat, a bit louder.

Again, no response.

“Goddammit, you cadaverous little shit! I finally get to see you and you’re fucking asleep,” you snap, your voice hovering dangerously close to full volume.

An ostensible army of nurses seems to appear out of no where, all of them quietly admonishing you for your loudness and language. By now,though, you’re not paying any attention to them. Instead, you’re busy metaphorically shitting your pants as you notice Dave opening his eyes a bit–as he greets you with a semblance of a smile and a curt nod.

“You do realise how much shit you’ve gotten yourself into, don’t you?” you laugh nervously.

Another curt nod serves as your reply.

“And you know you’re an imbecile who’s pretty fucking lucky to be breathing at all, right?” you mutter as you slowly pull up a chair.

A sound similar to a loud sigh–or, perhaps, a broken vacuum trying to do its intended job–comes from the machine attached to the blue tube, forcing his chest to rise and fall with the next several breaths. All the while, you avoid his gaze. You begin to find yourself wanting to leave; and, a feeling that you really shouldn’t be here begins to rise within you.

“I’m not helping at all, am I?” you murmur as you apprehensively run your fingers through your hair. “All I’m doing is being an asshole to you. That’s all I ever do, though, so why the fuck should I expect any different? I mean… Sure, you’re a stupendously clumsy nitwit –which, in itself, might necessitate my habitual ridicule, especially in light of recent events–but…”

You heave a heavy, thoughtful sigh and, upon glancing up at Dave, notice his free arm slowly searching through the tangled bedclothes. Eventually, he pulls forth a clipboard of blank paper and a red pen.Then, he scribbles out a reply…

well i guess that’s what i get for being such an ass to you

Upon reading the response, a faltering half-smile appears on your typically scornful features. “If that’s the case, then I guess karma’s got one fucked up sense of humour.” With another sigh, you turn your gaze away from him and fold your arms across your chest. Only after hearing the scratching of pen against paper stop, do you look up once more.

why do i feel like you really hate hospitals  
because dude you just glow with the light of i dont want to be here right now

“Because I actually do fucking hate hospitals,” you growl. “Now can we get past my irrational loathing of these sterilised buildings of blood and death?”

He rolls his eyes and scribbles something else down.

aw come on i wanted to play dr phil  
how does that make you feel karkat  
how the hell does it make you feel?

The sheer absurdity of his reply draws forth a reserved laugh from your end. “How about we don’t talk about feelings?” you chuckle.

in that case we wont be talking about much  
i mean i dont really have much to say really  
not all that sure of shit right now and its getting pretty hard to write so

You edge a bit closer to read the message. Then, you nod understandingly. “Then stop. I won’t fucking stab you if you quit writing. I mean… From the way you look, I know it has to hurt…”

Dave responds by preparing to scribble another message down. Before he can do much of anything, however, a nurse enters and shoos you from the room, drawing the curtains closed as you stumble into the hallway. And, you, as such, take your disappointed leave.

* * *

“The doctors told me to give this to you. They think you’re about ready for it,” you mutter as you hand him his phone.

It’s been two days since your last visit. In addition to granting him permission to have his phone back, the doctors have also taken out the tube you’d seen sticking from his mouth last time. That alone makes him appear to be doing far better. However, he also seems more energetic. He’s still a bit slow-moving and, according to John, has still been making a few dismissive comments about his pain; but, from what you can see, he’s slowly starting to return to himself.

“Also, John and I pooled our money to get you this. Try not to eat it all and regurgitate it fucking everywhere. The doctors’ll probably have another panic attack if you do,” you add as you dismissively set a sizeable sample box of chocolates on his bedside table, all the while wondering how long it will be before he snaps and asks for some.

—turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 22:46—  
TG: oh sweet chocolate fuck yes  
TG: is it german chocolate itd better be german chocolate

“No, you dumb fucker, it’s not German chocolate. Both John and I share a cumulatively fuck-worthy concern for you, but neither of us are swimming in greenish paper currency,” you chuckle.

TG: youre fired then  
TG: both of you are fired

In response to his idiotic jokes, you can’t help but laugh a bit. “You can’t fire me if I’m not being paid, you know.”

TG: well fuck that shit

He smirks, shrugs his one good shoulder, and shifts around a bit in the bed before replying.

TG: oh yeah pass me that box of sugar poop  
TG: gotta eat some shit today

“What’re your feelings about caramel?” you respond, raising a mischievous brow.

TG: oh god i fucking love caramel

Before he can finish typing, however, you stick the caramel truffle you had been holding into your mouth. “Sweet, because I fucking love that shit, too! Oh! You’d assumed I was giving it to you! Oh! That was quite blatantly an asshole move on my part, but the resultant pout currently on your face is completely fucking worth it.”

With a huff of mock disgust, Dave types in his reply. As he does so, you can’t help but notice that—even using only his good hand—he types relatively fast. Again, you attribute this to him being accustomed to communicating via technology.

TG: you are a fucking asshole  
TG: a giant zit on the face of humanity  
TG: a man without a soul  
TG: and you are so going to hell for this

“Actually, I don’t believe in hell. I find that notion, therefore, nonsensical and offensive,” you counter his comments with your own intellectually worded, yet equally idiotic, statement.

TG: oh really now  
TG: because i dont believe in guys named leonardo getting oscars

The abrupt nature of his reaction leaves you no time to bother with so much as attempting to suppress your laughter. “Okay, fuck you! That is just a shitty and irrelevant statement in regards to everything we’re talking about! Don’t bring Leo into arguments he doesn’t fucking belong in!”

TG: oh my god dude you treat him like a mom or something  
TG: people usually say oh no dont you bring my mom into this shit  
TG: you tell people to keep leo out of it  
TG: this is inexplicably amusing to me

You glance up, rolling your eyes as you notice the wide smirk spread across Dave’s face. “Well, according to John, boorish dark humour is also curiously risible when it comes to you.”

TG: aw come on man everyone loves dark shit jokes  
TG: and if im right about you youre someone who laughs at offensive jokes

“I do-fucking-not!” you laugh.

TG: really now  
TG: well see about that  
TG: eventually

At this point, the alarm you’ve set on your watch goes off. “Well, I’d love to stay and have a more detailed discourse about the exact meaning of life, but my ass will be kicked out of here by angry nurses if I don’t leave.”

TG: aw come on you cant leave now  
TG: you just got here  
TG: ill miss you if you go dude  
TG: come on now  
TG: and i want to bug you more  
TG: but lets go with ill miss you because it sounds better

“Of course you will. And I’ll miss you so much I’ll forget I’m even fucking missing you,” you chuckle With this said, you offer him a playful one-finger ( _the_ finger) salute before turning and exiting the hospital.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little on the short end, but a lot happens soooo... Dave could so make better rhymes, and I apologise for my shitty poetry skills.
> 
> Feedback welcome and stuff.

Following your last visit, you and John both agreed that it would be best to visit Dave separately. The conclusion reached was that you and John would alternate days and, if both parties were up to it, possibly visit together anywhere between Friday morning and Sunday night. Seeing as you’d already visited, you gave John the following day. Thus, it’s been twenty four hours since you’ve seen Dave.

All these stupid calculations are, however, trivial in comparison to the improvement a mere day has brought about in Dave. He’s more spirited and energetic; and, his personality is slowly returning to its former glory. Moreover, John has informed you that he’s finally moving around a bit. In fact, when you first entered his room (about three hours ago), he was out of bed and sitting in one of the guest chairs, reading yaoi, with his crutch propped up against the table directly beside him.

Within the three hours between then and the present, you and him managed to get in countless jokes and jabs at one another. However, it quickly became apparent that both you and him were rather hungry. It is this hunger that drove you to drag Dave to the cafeteria and, therefore, leads to the fact that you’re currently seated across from him, eating lobster…

TG: oh god this stuff tastes like cardboard  
TG: this isnt a burger this is a fucking cardboard sandwich  
TG: the cardboard being the part between two buns of newspaper

You look up from his message, notice him shoving his plate away, and laugh a bit. “In that case, you can have mine. It’s actually pretty good for hospital food.”

He frowns, shakes his head, and types in a response.

TG: no dude im not going to eat your food and leave you with my shit  
TG: its your lunch and its not your fault i got a shitty burger

“Just shut the fuck up and take my food, dammit,” you insist as you quickly swap his bland burger for your lemon-drenched lobster. Before he can protest further, you take a large bite of the food he’d been complaining about. “Sweet motherfucker. This _is_ bad. But it’s not the worst I’ve ever tasted,” you comment with an absent-minded shrug.

TG: okay fine then you get my food  
TG: but i dont like lobster

You look up at him and smirk, raising a brow. “Have you ever _tried_ it before?” The question is the exact same one your father always asks you when you try and refuse trying something new. It’s also the reason you’re not as picky an eater as most.

TG: no but

Before he can finish, you pick up the fork and stab it into the pink meat. Then, you hand the aforementioned fork to him. “Try it, you little shit. It’s better than that reprehensibly bland crap you’d been eating.”

He responds to this statement with a quizzically raised brow. However, he also acquiesces and takes a timid bite. As you expected, this is quickly followed by the rapid consumption of the remaining lobster.

TG: okay were even i gave you coffee you gave me lobster  
TG: like if i saved your ass and you saved mine  
TG: but less dramatic

With a roll of your eyes and a quiet chuckle, you reply, “Yes, of course it is. Now, let’s get out of here before the lunch rush.”

* * *

Back in the room, you and Dave continue swapping odd banter for another hour or so. Then, you pull out the personal project you’d brought to work on while you kept him company. As soon as you pull it–a canvas covered in dark acrylic browns, reds, and blacks shaped roughly into the form of a skull–out, Dave starts gawking.

TG: hot damn i didnt know you painted

You dismissively shrug his comment off. “Most people don’t.” As you speak, you closely inspect a few areas. Only after inspecting these areas of concern do you comment further. “I’m not all that great at it. Honestly, I don’t know why I keep trying.”

TG: well you cant just pick up a brush and shit out davinci  
TG: unless youre god or davinci  
TG: but thats some pretty awesome shit youve got there  
TG: you should make some more and sell it

His compliment lifts your perpetually grounded ego a bit. “Really? You like it that much?” you inquire, laughing. “I really don’t. It’s not turning out the way I wanted it to. But, if you like it so much, you can have it.”

TG: that would be awesome  
TG: and im a nosy person so you think youd mind saying where you learned to paint like that  
TG: cause i cant handle acrylic to save my ass

“I didn’t learn it, really. I screwed around by myself until I figured it out,” you shrug. In your peripheral vision, you can see him watching you paint, mesmerised by practically everything you’re doing. “If you don’t look askance at me asking, how the fuck did you learn to play and write music? I mean…”

TG: nope dont really care about that  
TG: actually i was kind of wondering how much long it would be before you asked  
TG: so just sit there and let me entertain you with the following kickass poem  
TG: i guess im the same as you  
TG: just kinda screwed around  
TG: figured out what to do  
TG: picked up on different sounds  
TG: learned to guess and decipher  
TG: and over time i put it together  
TG: figured out what did and didnt fit  
TG: and it sounds really corny to say  
TG: but i just kind of feel it  
TG: sense the beats when songs play  
TG: any other questions because i can keep this shit up all day dude

By the time you’re finished reading, you can’t help but let a smile slip past your emotional filter. You can’t help but be amazed at how he can take such personal subject matter and rattle it out as admittedly serious poetry, yet still seem casual and relaxed. “So, from what you just poetically pried from your posterior, I’m guessing you…”

Before you can finish, his fingers start flying across the phone screen. Within seconds, the messages he’s typing begin to pop up on your iPod screen.

TG: let me save you some time  
TG: while i drop this phat rhyme  
TG: i know what youll ask  
TG: because everyone does  
TG: so lemme cut out the fluff  
TG: and turn the clock back  
TG: see according to bro  
TG: i could hear for a bit  
TG: but as far as i know  
TG: my hearings always been shit

Once again you find that, despite the subject matter, his explanation quite amusing. In fact, it even manages draws a quiet chuckle from you. “Well, that’s one way to say it, Douchebag Seuss. I’m sure that little diddy makes all the ladies chase after you like fucking chocolate on legs, too.”

TG: i give you my awesome rhymes and you go and call me douchebag seuss again  
TG: and then you rub in the fact that ive never dated anyone  
TG: you sir are an asshole

An insincere frown spreads across his face, and you roll your eyes as a response. “Well, hey, I’ve never dated before. Maybe we can have our bachelor parties together in twelve years.”

At this point, the insincere look on his face fades to a serious, hopeful, and nervous smile.

TG: or maybe we could date each other  
TG: the angsty deaf musician and the angry dude  
TG: oh hey together that makes beethoven  
TG: angry deaf musician

“Did you seriously just compare a relationship between us to Beethoven!?” you laugh. “Congrats, Dave. You’ve officially won the award for being the most voluminous goddamn nerd I’ve ever met. I have never and _will_ never have the displeasure of meeting a fucker such as you ever again in my life and, taking this fact into consideration… I’ll say… Yes. Why the fuck not. Shits like us have to stick together,” you reply with wink.

TG: dear god that was the most insulting yes ive ever heard  
TG: id hate to hear your wedding vows

“Wedding vows!?” you mumble, raising a slightly shocked brow. “Don’t you think you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself here?”

Dave responds to your inquiry with a wide grin, a wink, and a nonchalant shrug.

TG: i could be jumping a bed  
TG: see look at that im a comedy genius

You roll your eyes and return most of your attention to your painting. “Of course you are, you insufferable prick. You’re a comedy king. In fact, you’re such a prolific king of comedy that you end up like Charles I of England…”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my friend, [**Emma**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/50shadesofdeduction), who provided some inspiration for this piece. Her Tumblr can be found [**here**](http://vatican-christmeos.tumblr.com/)! Commentary still welcome, and this chapter probably breaks character so much it might as well be entirely _out of_ character. ~~(Icarn'twrite.)~~

It’s your turn to visit Dave and, at least according to John, it’s also Dave’s last full twenty-four hour stay in the hospital. The visit itself, however, has been quite subdued–at least in light of such news. In fact, most of the visit has been more of a mutual, silent enjoyment of the other’s company than the celebration one may expect from newly ordained college students. You’ve taken comfort in his presence as you paint; and, he’s taken respite in your companionship as he reads.

After about three hours of this, however, he seems to make an executive decision to break the silence; and, you hear the quiet, low-pitch thudding of his fingers against his phone screen. Seconds later, _your_ iPod resounds with the trademark _ding_ synonymous with a new Pesterchum message. You set your brush down on the easel and fish the device from your pocket, wiping your hands off on your pants legs before “sliding to unlock”.

—turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 15:04—  
TG: you know i hate to admit it about you as much as you hate to admit it about me  
TG: but i have to say that even with all your asshole tendencies youre a pretty cool guy

Upon reading the messages, you can’t help but raise a confused brow. “Is that a _compliment_? Could that be a compliment being regurgitated from the fingers of Dave Strider?” you mumble. “You must be going insane.”

TG: no i was just saying what i feel  
TG: john said i need to do that more  
TG: its supposed to make things easier to think about or something

At his response, you can’t help but chuckle. “ _John_ said to. Anything John says, you’ll do without a fucking question. John says to sultate off a bridge, you leap. You’re like a fucking drone.”

TG: no i just respect his opinion  
TG: i mean yeah he can be stupid but he usually has sound advice  
TG: better than yours at least

“Oh, now we’re insulting each other again?” you counter with a smirk. “Because, as far as I know, you don’t always give fucking infallible advice, either.”

TG: okay fine i admit to that  
TG: apologies for bad advice ive shat  
TG: now could you just shut the fuck up  
TG: so i can talk to you you sad lump

You shrug and turn to face him, arms folded expectantly across your chest. “I’m tempted to decline the offer just because of that little diddy. However, seeing as you seem to need someone to reciprocate your feelings to… Go for it.”

TG: cool because i was gonna keep going even if you said no  
TG: so you have those people in your life that  
TG: like you know you like them and theyre pretty radical  
TG: but there are just things they do that you just cant stand  
TG: and you really want to strangle them with a shoe string but you dont?  
TG: you getting what im dishing out

“Kind of.” You wander over to the chair at the end of his bed and pull it up, sitting down so that you’re at eye level with him. “If I’m understanding your nonsensical babble correctly, I’d have to say yes. Makara. I fucking love Gamzee, and he’s one of the coolest roommates and guys you’d ever meet. But he’s perpetually stoned as hell. Fuck, looking at a basilisk probably wouldn’t do anything because he’s stoned enough already!” you reply with a bit more passion than you’d intended and, as such, tone it down for your final statement. “Why?”

TG: well okay at least im not the only one with that problem  
TG: i was thinking i was a shitty guy for feeling that way  
TG: well im still a shitty guy but thats a different story

Heaving a heavy sigh, you react with a thoughtful nod. “No, I think everyone has that one stupid fucker in their life. That one person they adore and abhor at the same time. A majority of the time is spent in mutual delectation of one another; but, there’re just those times when they’re an annoying-ass piece of shit you want to scoop up and toss into a garbage receptacle.”

TG: whoa slow down there merriam webster  
TG: back it up a little bit there  
TG: spent in mutual what of each other  
TG: sweet baby jesus dude stop using big words

A quiet chuckle slips out as you roll your eyes at him. “Delectation. It’s a noun meaning delight. Quite honestly, it sounds nicer than saying plain-as-shit ‘enjoyment’. _Do you want me to spell it for you?_ ” Near the end of your semi-sarcastic reply, you decide to bump the sarcasticometer up a bit, and put on an accent which–according to Sollux, is your “2marta22” accent–happens to, in all actuality, be a rather decent imitation of a Cumbrian accent.

TG: oh god no i dont professor condescending  
TG: but i hate to say that youre probably right  
TG: and ill be ignoring your latest comments  
TG: im asking because john is pretty much the same  
TG: except its not that hes a stoner  
TG: he just wants to help too damn much  
TG: like all i want to do is grab him by the shoulders and scream in his face  
TG: its freaking okay dude i dont need your help with every little thing

“Oh?” You unfold your arms and rest your elbows on your knees, rest your chin on your hands, and lean forward. With this closer viewpoint, you can’t help but observe his eyebrows–an odd mix of naturally white hairs which blend seamlessly with his pale skin, and unevenly dyed grey. “I’m guessing you’re still taking his advice,though, seeing as you’re fucking doing this. That is, however, irrelevant as fuck. Elaborate?”

TG: god are you just naturally a butt  
TG: but yeah i love john to death and id go through all this shit again to save his stupid ass  
TG: and he means well…  
TG: he always MEANS well  
TG: its just that meaning well doesnt always translate to doing well  
TG: or doing good i dont know grammar is weird  
TG: and im too lazy to think about it right now

It is at this point that he seems to hesitate, his odd red eyes glancing nervously towards you. Trusting your gut instincts–your inner nurturer–you gently urge him onward. “Keep going, I’m still listening… Reading… Whatever the fuck you want to refer to it as.”

TG: i dont know hes really helpful but he just doesn know when to stop helping  
TG: like hell just keep translating even when i tell him to stop  
TG: or hell inadvertently repeat what ive said somehow  
TG: hes just a bit dense  
TG: awesome and helpful yeah but dense  
TG: and im not exactly up for crushing his feelings  
TG: because hes all weird and touchy feely and shit  
TG: like hes a ball of piss poor pranks and emotion

For a moment, you thoughtfully chew your lip. You mull over the situation. An idea surfaces after a few minutes and, following some quick consideration about its wording, you offer your own words of wisdom. “Have you tried just fucking talking about it? He’s your goddamned roommate, after all! You spend an unsurprising majority of your time in your dorm, _with him_. And, I mean… John’s pretty good at complying with given demands. He’s like a fucking computer–put in some parameters, click a button and BAM! you have your very own pants-shittingly obedient servant!”

Dave looks at you with a confusedly raised white-and-grey brow. He types something in, backspaces rapidly, and rewrites his response.

TG: actually i really havent  
TG: i mean im just not one for talking to people about shit like that  
TG: and im just not willing to risk losing him as a friend and interpretor  
TG: like ive known him since middle school  
TG: he found me one day when i wandered off alone  
TG: i mean up until he started hanging out with me i never really had friends  
TG: it was me against a fuckload of bullies and pricks  
TG: and then he came along and well  
TG: i dont know hes just so comfortable with himself  
TG: hes so collected and he knows how to handle his emotions and maintain friendships and i dont and i actually kind of look up to him you know  
TG: i mean i always give him shit about being the little brother  
TG: cause im older than him and all  
TG: but hes probably more of an older brother to me than he knows or i tell him  
TG: and aside from that shit hes also one of my few connections to the world you know

At this point, you begin to realise that Dave might be more like you than you’d ever imagined. It hits you that maybe–just maybe–his outward façade of cool is just that–a façade, a veil he hides behind constantly.

It is with all of this now floating about in your head that you heave a slightly shaky sigh and nod understandingly, absent-mindedly tapping your foot as you think. “Well… Shit… I never knew any of that about you. But, yeah, I get it. Gamzee was about the same for me. I mean, he smelled like he’d been fucking a sex doll made of weed all day and he was just as stoned as he is now… But he was batshit insane enough to talk to me when no one else would; and, he never was and still isn’t all that helpful… So it’s not all that like your relationship with John. I don’t know… My main exhortation is all the shit I just said about talking to him.”

When you look at Dave, you’re surprised to find an uncertain half-smile on his normally unemotional face. He seems completely unaware of the fact that he’s tapping his pale fingers against the bed railing, and is equally oblivious of the fact that you’re staring at them. After a moment, however, he removes his hand from the railing and hammers out another series of replies.

TG: yeah i guess youre right  
TG: i should probably talk to him about it  
TG: ill do it tomorrow  
TG: and gamzees that weird and freakishly tall clown dude you hang with right

“That’d be the fucker,” you respond with a vaguely fond grin. “Curly black hair, stoner voice with a heavy southern accent…” In an effort to lighten the mood a bit, you decide to take a shot at impersonating your dear stoner friend. “Talks a whole motherfuckin’ lot like this and really just overuses the motherfuckin’ word ‘motherfucker’?”

Your absurdity pays off as Dave responds with a quiet laugh.

TG: thatd sure as hell be the guy  
TG: so youve known him since

“Well…” you grumble, digging through your memory’s archives. “Third grade… He just straight up started spewing ridiculous shit about a sacrosanct posse of ‘mirthful messiahs’. I had no fucking idea what he was saying but he was a person and, unlike most, he was talking to me–albeit incoherently. Somehow, I managed to steer the crazy ass conversational locomotive back to the steel rails of sanity and… well… Eventually, I wound up being close enough to the euphoric dolt… What about you and John?”

A sly grin flashes across his features before he begins typing.

TG: well it was halfway through third grade  
TG: and i dont really recall what i was doing  
TG: but it was when it didnt have my hearing aid  
TG: he just straight up sat and started rambling

“Again with these fucking rhymes!” you laugh, rolling your eyes at the resultant smirk which crosses his features. “Just spit it out already, Douchebag Seuss.”

TG: fine fine  
TG: hot damn you just hate fun dont you  
TG: as i was saying before i was so rudely cut off by your rude rudeness  
TG: it took him a while to notice i was lost as hell and had no idea what was happening  
TG: but when he did he kind of crouched down and picked up a stick and started scribbling in the sand  
TG: bam instant friendship

As much as you hate to admit it, you can’t deny that you find the story a bit cute. It’s like one of those seemingly impossibly sweet moments people feel the need to post about on the internet. “Well, if it’s true, I can totally see it. John hasn’t changed much since then, has he?”

TG: nope not really  
TG: i eventually got sick of writing shit down all the time  
TG: so i taught him sign and he just assigned himself as my interpretor  
TG: and wow weve come full fucking circle  
TG: we bet around the bush so much we fell face first into the goddamn thing

“That’s one ridiculous way to put it,” you retort with another roll of your eyes. You prepare to say more, only to be interrupted by the beeping of your watch. A frustrated sigh escapes you as you quickly pack up the art supplies you’d brought. “Anyhow, I have to debark at this time. I have to go shit out a rhetorical analysis and fuck around with some argumentative essays.”

When you look at him, you notice that he seems slightly disappointed. However, he quickly rectifies this, returning to his usual passive mood.

TG: okay then ill see you later  
TG: try not to die while im not watching you

You laugh at his commentary and nod sarcastically. “Says the college freshman who fucked up his knee so badly they had to replace it with the same synthetic joint they stick into the knees of senile elders.” With this said, you throw your bag over your shoulder and depart with the middle-finger salute, an action which has become an integral part of your time with him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody please take this computer away from me. I'm polluting the internet with this crap. >_>
> 
> Feel free to comment or whatever.

You’re not quite sure how he does it. In barely half a day, he’s attended one lecture, turned in the project which brought you and him together, been asked and agreed to conduct one of his original pieces at a local orchestral performance, and still has time to relax with you in his dorm. On top of all of that, it’s all happening _the day he gets back from the hospital_.

It reminds you that he’s freaking insane–inhuman, even–and, for some reason, of how much of a self-centred prick you’d thought he’d be when you first met him. It calls to mind one of the disparities between you and him–stress. While he takes near everything in stride–stress included–you can barely function with too much on your plate. It recalls that, while you and him share many similarities, many distinctions still exist.

But, as you look at him, these disparities are the last things on your mind. No, you’re thinking about the way the light hits his abnormal white hair, making it appear translucent. You’re more concerned about the way his seemingly invisible eyelashes cast a small, faint shadow across his face. You’re fascinated by the way he sits–his injured leg straight, propped up by a pillow beneath his knee, the other bent–and holds his guitar against the thigh of his bent leg, his ear a hair’s width away from touching the guitar’s wooden body; and, all the while, the deft movement of his fingers from chord to chord captures both your imagination and your interest…

“So, hey, Karkat?” John’s voice throws you abruptly back into reality, to a dorm room occupied by both him and Dave. “I heard from Dave that you’re a painter?”

“What… No…!” You mutter, still reeling from the shock of being pulled from your trance in such an abrupt manner. “I’m not a fucking artist, Egg-shit. It’s just a hobby. I’m not any good at it!”

John’s sky blue gaze darts over to Dave, watching as he signs a reply. “Well, according to Dave, you’re one hell of a hobbyist. I can’t say much, seeing as I can’t draw worth shit.”

You nod slowly, trying to keep yourself from telling John to just shut up. You, quite honestly, have no desire for talking to him right now–not when so many things are going on in your head…

 _Beep beep. Beep beep._ Your gaze flies up and over to John, checking his watch.

“Well I’ve got to go do some crap for some people. Try not to fuck up the place too much, you flaming homosexual lovebirds,” he says, in a mixed dismissive and joking tone. Before either of you can react, he offers a casual wave and exits the dorm.

As the door clicks closed, the tail end of John’s comment seems to catch up with Dave, causing him to lose his train of thought. A loud, discordant _ding_ sounds through the small dorm as one of his guitar strings snaps from too much pressure, and you see his once-again-shaded gaze turning towards the now-closed door. Once he realises that John has left, however, he turns his attention to the broken string.

His reaction, though unnoticed by John, piques your curiosity. You wander over to him and sit down on John’s bed, located about two yards to the right of his. “Nice move, Stridork.”

Dave looks up at you. His brows furrowing and his hand immediately reacting by flipping you the bird. Then, as would be expected, he pulls forth his phone.

—turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 11:43—  
TG: oh my god did you just call me stridork  
TG: i thought you were so much better than that  
TG: i thought you were so much BETTER  
TG: that is such an unoriginal insult  
TG: id be more offended if you called me sugar tits actually  
TG: im not kidding i would really be offended more by sugartits than stridork  
TG: do you realise how many people call me stridork  
TG: no no dont answer because i dont think you do  
TG: ive been called stridork so many times that the joke is deader than abraham lincoln

“ _Sugar tits_?” you manage to say through a mix between a laugh and a slightly disturbed gasp. “Why the fuck would I call you 'sugar tits'!?”

TG: i dont know maybe if i spilled sugar all over my breasts  
TG: how am i supposed to know why youd call me sugar tits

You stare blankly at his reply, half concerned and half amused by them. “How did this fucked up argument even get off the fucking ground!?” Your loud objection is merely an attempt at distracting yourself from him; and, ultimately, it fails. Thus, it's not surprising that both your thoughts and your gaze keep returning to him…

No! you remind yourself firmly, though, perhaps, not firmly enough. Dave is your friend. Or, at least, he’s what you’re capable of calling a friend. He’s your simultaneous inspiration to improve and artistically talented rival. He’s… He’s Dave! He’s Dave Strider. Just Dave Strider. He’s just a peer and a fellow musician, one of many college campus freshmen. Yet, at the same time, he can’t _just_ be Dave Strider. He’s more than that…

 _Ding._ The sound indicative of a new Pesterchum message provides you with much-needed respite from the confusing battle raging in your head.

TG: it started when i said stridork was unoriginal and that sugar tits was more offensive  
TG: have you even been paying attention to this conversation  
TG: or have you just been staring at my kickass shades this whole time

“I haven’t been staring at your fucking shades, I’ve been–” You stop yourself mid-sentence, forcing yourself to back up and think about what you’re trying to say. “I…”

What are you supposed to do now? What’ve you gotten yourself into? As a certain internet audio clip might say, “you dun fucked up”.

You heave a nervous sigh and, after a few moments of thought, decide to take a chance. After all, he can probably take it; he's Dave. Not to mention that fact that you’ll still be able to hang out with him, even if you’re not in bed with him… “Dave?”

He looks up at you and tilts his head a bit to the side. In a way, it makes him appear a bit like a puppy that’s just heard a new sound; and, not surprisingly, that merely complicates things further.

“Remember when you were shitting around about dating?” you inquire as you nervously wring your hands together. You keep your gaze locked on the ground, gauging his reactions only by what you can see in your peripheral vision. In response to this particular question, you notice a slow and possibly sceptical nod.

With another deep breath, you calm yourself. He’s told you before that he can’t usually hear minor differences in pitch; but, at least this time, you’re not willing to take a chance. You don’t want to fuck this up. “Well I fucking hope you did, since you fucking said it…” Almost as soon as you’ve finished saying it, you regret it. You’d meant it as something to try and assuage the awkward tension; but, in your mind, it registers as coming out as an awkwardly botched attempt at humour. Despite the perceived failure, however, you forge on.

“Well… I’ve been thinking about it and… I…”

Love? No. If you say that word, you’re certain to have to drag around the extra weight of an emotionally attached albino clinging to your ankle. That’s not it.

Hate? No. No. Definitely not.

“I harbour certain… feelings for you,” you blurt out, unable to think of anything else to say. 

Overall, you have to admit that you’ve done better than you thought you would. Yet, even with your self-assurance that you did well, you can’t help but hesitate in looking up at him. When you finally manage to do so, you find that he still has the same seemingly bored look on his face–something that both encourages and frightens you.

TG: …  
TG: wow dude  
TG: it took you this fucking long to crawl out of the closet  
TG: sweet baby jesus youre slow on the uptake on this shit

“Wait what?” you mumble, staring at him in shock.

He, in return, smirks and lifts his shades enough for you to see him roll his eyes, prior to dropping them back into place.

TG: dude ive been getting that vibe from you for a while  
TG: but okay thats cool  
TG: so im guessing this is you legitimately asking me out now  
TG: cause the answers yes i mean like you said why the fuck not  
TG: and like i said  
TG: were freaking beethoven combined  
TG: why the fuck not

You spend the next few minutes with your jaw dropped, staring blankly at his nonchalant grin. “You… What the fucking hell!?”

TG: oh wow is the great vantasshole at a loss for words  
TG: i did it i broke the karkat  
TG: strider one  
TG: vantas zero

Still baffled by the recent turn of events, your immediate reaction is the same one you usually have to things that distress you. You stand up fast enough to knock the chair backwards and, in typical Vantas fashion, proceed with the yelling. “I… I… You’re a fucking asshole, Strider. You’re abso-fucking-lutely unbelievable! You’re–”

Your attempts to continue insulting him are cut short by his grip closing around your shirt. His smirk grows in size for a moment; then, he pulls you in. He tugs you with enough abrupt force to send you on an unavoidable collision course with his lips; and, surely enough, it happens within seconds of the actions registering in your still-baffled mind.

His lips are pressed against yours, yours (quite obviously) against his. Then, as quickly as it happened, it stops. He pushes you back, causing you to stumble a few steps before righting yourself, and lets forth the first genuine laugh you’ve ever heard from him.

TG: consider yourself property of strider now  
TG: and ill consider myself property of vantas  
TG: dammit i get the stupid name you get to be strider stuff  
TG: im vantas veal or something like that

“You’re fucking insane!” Despite your words, you can’t hold back a lopsided grin of delighted shock.

TG: please say you didnt just realise that  
TG: ive always been this kickass insane  
TG: how else would i be able to spin out such rad beats  
TG: cant have everything  
TG: gotta drop something  
TG: and i dropped the sanity  
TG: its a win win situation

After heaving a heavy sigh of mock disdain and rolling your eyes, you counter his odd comebacks with some of your own. Or, at least, you prepare to do so; for, at that moment, the steady beeping of your watch interrupts you. You spend a few minutes racking your brain, trying to figure our what you may have forgotten before… “God fucking dammit. I forgot the interview…”

TG: you can take johns car if you want  
TG: dont crash it though cause johnll have my dick hanging on the wall if you do  
TG: and you know you want THAT d so

“Dave, you’re an indecently perverted fucker,” you laugh as you quickly fix your hair in the mirror and turn to leave. You’d stay for the answer if the situation was different. However, being as it is, you’re already toeing the line of punctuality. You, therefore, offer him an apologetic nod and depart from the dorm…


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is called a "brain barf". It's unnecessary crap prose that really serves no purpose other than to (a.) make a reference to the title of this story, (b.) increase word count, and (c.) set up for the next (and probably final or near-final) scene. IDEK what I'm doing any more.

You’re not quite sure what’s going on right now, a problem which seems to have dramatically increased in frequency since you’ve started hanging out with Dave.

You’re stuffed into a plain black tuxedo, sitting in front of your recently officiated boyfriend with hundreds–maybe thousands–of eyes on both of you. Really, you’re not even needed here. Dave is the conductor and composer, after all. John is in the orchestra, playing one of the two pianos. You… Well… You’re just here because Dave didn’t want you in the audience. You’re here because Dave insisted upon shoving your cello into the car and unnecessarily adding you to the roster of already-confused orchestra members.

As for what’s going on… That’s really the only thing you’re sure of; and, with the instruments you see in the surrounding orchestra, you still have some doubts. It is in this orchestra that you see almost everything _but_ traditional instruments–three electric guitars have been brought in, the grand piano replaced by an electronic multi-sound keyboard, and practically every instrument–from cellos and violins to harps and violas–is in its electric form. The percussion section is mostly absent, replaced by three high-end drum kits; and, wires jut from the speakers and amps like bristles from an overused broom…

If it weren’t for the fact that you, acting under his orders, have his hearing aids stuffed in your tuxedo pocket, you’d ask him what the hell is going on. But, seeing as this is, inarguably, the case, you’re forced to sit and stare at the orchestra surrounding you in utter confusion.

After about ten minutes of gazing at the crowd of identically-outfitted musicians, all of whom–with, unsurprisingly, the exception of John–seem to have the same bemusedly befuddled expression on their faces, you hear the familiar sound of the orchestra prompting the crowd to settle. A few of the violinists and bassists scratch out a single, sustained note. The lights dim a bit, only to brighten to full intensity seconds later; and, the crowd’s chatter dies down.

Two minutes after this, the lights dim completely. The stage lights fade out of their inoperative slumber; and, the head of the orchestra–a curious bespectacled male in his twenties who, for some inexplicable reason, is wearing both a purple scarf and a cape–introduces the orchestra. He blabbers on in a voice accented by a dialect that, though familiar, you can’t place. Then, after what feels like forever–and is, in all actuality, about ten minutes–he gives the audience a small introduction to Dave. He then turns, his idiotic and anachronistic cape billowing behind him, and sits down in the first violinist seat.

The musicians prepare themselves, flipping open the surprisingly thick booklet prior to looking expectantly at Dave; and, to your relief, he begins without prompting from you.

You watch with halfway-sincere interest as he, silhouetted against the effulgent stage lights and balanced against both the moved podium and his crutch, raises his hands in the air. He glances down at the sheet music before taking an audible breath of thinly-veiled excitement. With his right hand, in which he carefully grips a fibreglass baton, raised to the same height as his loosely held left, he begins. His right hand takes an abrupt, powerful downward sweep, and the music begins.

Or, rather, one of the strangest sounds you’ve ever heard coming from an orchestra begins. It’s the sound of a mix between what you recognise, individually, a slide guitar and some sort of wind instrument–your money is on a flute. Nonetheless, it’s the mix of–for lack of words to explain it–some sort of screwy country-tainted tenor throat singing with sporadic interspersions of choppy, mezzo-soprano opera singing. And, while it’s not the _worst_ thing ever to grate against your eardrums, it’s not the prettiest. A faint murmur rumbles through the audience.

With the next tense triangular loop of his baton, the odd musical duo silences itself. Then, following a second of silence, it begins. The first part is, at least according to the sheet music Dave provided for you to play on your cello, admittedly bland. It’s standard orchestra score, albeit played upon electric instruments. Your cello isn’t fit to play any parts in the two pages of music visible and, out of curiosity, you flip forwards, finding the following two and half pages to be about the same. The final half page you have a chance to look at, however, shows a dramatic change. It shows a shift in music that you’re both sceptical of and bewildered by–an orchestral version of a bass drop. From your natural disdain for the mishmash genre of music characteristic of the so-called "bass drop", you prepare yourself for the worst.

At the same time, however, you begin to think about things. Things such as the fact that you’re currently dating a guy batshit insane enough to even arrange orchestral dubstep and, depending on outcome, either talented or nescient enough to try to make a living with it… But, judging from the musical scores he's supplied to you, from what you’ve seen and played, you’re getting the feeling it’s likely the former of the two outcomes.

You’re still thinking of these things when it hits, shaking you from your thoughtful reverie. About half of the bass instruments begin playing a deep, rumbling, sustained note; the other half busies itself with their musical supporting tone. The rest of the instruments split off. Some play music you’d expect to hear from an orchestra, while others begin using some of the strangest techniques you’ve ever seen performed or annotated in sheet music to produce the effects of everything from urban noise to bird call mimicry. All the while, the remaining orchestra members–the one tenth not devoted to either of these seemingly absurd notions, begin playing the dominating tune. The drummers begin to play and, to your slight surprise, the sounds begin to meld together, forming into a unified musical piece of both harmony and discord.

It’s the orchestral amalgamation of a seemingly endless selection of carefully chosen genres and harmonics, which results in something you’d expect to hear in the background of a dystopian video game. But, at the same time, it’s a phantasmal arrangement designed to evoke the feeling of a splendiferous utopian world. Even the beat manages to emotionally gorge a piece already plenteous in its share of raw pathos–adding tension and gently suggesting the presence of an overbearing, watchful presence within the society set forth by the composition.

Though you’re now busy playing your parts, you, being a part of the orchestra, still look at him. You watch as he seems to sense problems arising in volume and, to your amazement, balances out sounds. 

With a forceful gesture of his batonless left hand, he raises or lowers the volume of a quantity ranging from a single musician to an entire section of the orchestra–palm up with an upward motion increases volume, palm down in a downward motion decreases it.

By merely controlling the tension in the muscles of his hand, he creates moods and variations within the music. He loosens his hand, the orchestra begins to play more freely. He tightens it, and their playing becomes more tense and dramatic.

The orchestra continues playing in this way until the song is over, at which point Dave glances at them to assure that he hasn’t stopped himself too early. You notice the sweat beading on his brow, his hands shaking, chest heaving. Behind him, the crowd sits silent for several minutes. From the few rows illuminated by excess stage lighting, you see most of the audience looking on in shock. A small number of them seem to be disgusted. But, one by one, they begin stand and clap; and, one by one, it builds into a near-unanimous standing ovation.

Dave, however, is still staring blankly at the orchestra. You’re not quite sure if he’s afraid to turn or he’s just being odd; but, as surreptitiously as possible, you set your cello aside and rise to your feet. Then, in a fashion similar to that of [certain movie](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Immortal_Beloved_\(film\)) about a certain classical German composer, you slowly approach him. You gently take hold of his shoulders, turn him to face the audience and, for the first time in the past twenty-four hours, he smiles. However, true to his so-called “Strider style”, (and, consequently, diverging from the widely circulated story of the aforementioned composer, whose name, to clear things up completely, just so happens to start with “Beeth” and end with “oven”) the smile marks the full extent of his emotional reaction. As you expected of him, he doesn’t bother crying. Instead, he seems to mentally, rather than emotionally, feed off of the experience, all while maintaining his composure. He redistributes his weight between his good leg, his injured leg, and his crutch; offers the crowd a nod of his head rather than a bow;and, once finished, follows you, John, and every orchestra member (aside from the freaky cape dude) backstage.

From onstage, you can hear the oddly accented voice of the orchestra head giving Dave’s outro. You don’t bother listening, though, as most of it seems to be prattle about financial support for the orchestra. Instead, you turn your attention to Dave who, having located John, is having the most animated discussion you’ve ever witnessed from the likes of him.

As you approach John breaks his concentration on Dave long enough to offer you one of his stupid, toothy grins. “Nice job, Kar-crab.” Once this is said, he returns his attention to Dave, only to turn his gaze back to you seconds later. “Dave says he’s sure you didn’t fuck up too much, by the way.”

In response to both of these comments, you can’t help but roll your eyes and let forth a quiet chuckle. “Thanks for the encouragement from the asshole gallery. Now, I’m guessing Dave wants these? Because they’ve been contaminating the pocket of this undeserving tuxedo with his vile ear secretions.”

John laughs at your commentary, snorting a bit as he usually does, before taking the hearing aids from you and handing them to Dave. Once he’s finished this, he glances down at his watch. “Well… It’s nearly eleven. I’m not sure about you two, but I’d like to be awake before noon tomorrow, so…”

Both you and Dave, having put his hearing aids back in, nod in reply before gathering the few belongings you’d each had backstage. Dave picks up his coat, while you retrieve your jacket. Then, you report back to John. From there, you all head to the car and, eventually, back to campus as a group. Once you’ve returned to campus, however, the group splits, each person going to their respective dormitory…


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the probably-abrupt and unsatisfying ending. I'd planned this story to be longer. But, somehow, it turned into a runaway train and flew off the iron plot tracks as it came to its first bend. From there, it kinda' just steamed on down a giant hill... So, I decided to stop it before it careened into the inevitable pit of failure. (I probably failed in my effort to not fail, anyhow...)

His fingers are tangled in your hair, his eyes half closed. The slightly musky smell of cigarette smoke mixes with a scent you’d associate strongly with a vinyl record shop, culminating in the distinct aroma you’ve come to affiliate with him. At the same time, the smell of alcohol–a remnant of the holiday season, which provided you the break that ultimately resulted in your presence in his room–hangs thinly in the air.

The sound of him breathing fills your ears; and, each of his warm breaths brushes against your neck. You pull up a bit, momentarily moving away from this warmth, only to return and press your lips against his.

It is at this point that he smirks and roughly pushes you off of him, rolling you onto your back, before positioning himself in as much of a kneeling position as his still-injured leg allows.

“See, this is why I said that trying to engage in any form of romantic intercourse with you would be like trying to fuck a feral coyote,” you grumble, a grin managing to remain on your face despite your words.

He responds to you with an oddly charming, smug grin; then, before you can protest further, he presses his lips to yours. His tongue slips past your half-heartedly clenched teeth as he administers to you your first ever French kiss. Against your personal expectations, you find the rather personal and slightly awkward exchange to be, admittedly, enjoyable. In fact, you’re a bit disappointed when he finally stops.

However, the point at which he stops is the point at which he rolls back onto his back, having decided that he’d been on his bad leg for long enough.

You take the opportunity to return to your former position, over him, and flash him a confident smirk. “Keep this type of shit up and I can assure you you’ll fuck up that leg even more, you imbecilic asshole.”

He replies with a roll of his eyes and a surprisingly seductive wink.

From there, it’s more of the same. He embraces you, and you return the favour.

You continue in this way until, eventually, he decides to–with a good deal of vigour–remove his pants. Following some awkward exchanges and a bit of befuddled blushing, you treat him to some of your slightly nervous oral manipulation. At times, he roughly grabs your hair, indicating to you that you’re doing something he’s not fond of. However, for the most part, the only thing he does is attempt and, ultimately, fail to stifle his moans.

You’re not quite sure how long this goes on. Perhaps it only lasts a few minutes, but it feels like forever. It feels like an eternity of surprisingly sublime seduction; and, it ends fittingly.

It ends with both you and him on your sides, facing one another, with his odd red gaze level to your grey.

“You know, you’re stupendously stupid… And… I think that’s one of the reasons I at least tolerate your repugnant presence.” You grumble–offer him your own odd, undoubtedly insulting, words of affection.

He responds by putting his forehead against yours and, with a wide grin, quietly replying with the elusive sound of his Texan-accented voice. “If that wasn’t a crappily veiled statement of affection, then I don’t know what it was.”

With a quiet chuckle and a roll of your eyes, you reply. “Perhaps it was… Either way, just keep on fucking dreaming, Beethoven.”

He looks at you, smirks, and breathes a contented sigh; then, both you and him fall into a peaceful slumber…


End file.
